


Siuil a  Ruin

by Perri Smith (neonhummingbird)



Category: The Tillerman Cycle - Cynthia Voigt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-17
Updated: 2008-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:05:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonhummingbird/pseuds/Perri%20Smith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of her children turned into runners in the end. But some of them ran home, one way or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siuil a  Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bookwormsarah

 

 

_I._

The dishwater is hot against Dicey's skin as she scrubs out the turkey pan. Her fingertips are red and wrinkled from washing, but she puts her shoulders into it and scrubs harder.

The sound of the piano drifts hesitantly through the house, as Maybeth picks her way through one of the songs in the old book Dicey and Gram brought back from Boston. Maybeth's eyes glowed with both pleasure and apprehension when she saw what the large, heavy package contained, but James (already setting up his chess board) reassured her quickly that it was just music, and she could read music. The song sounds like it maybe should be happy, but Maybeth is playing it sad. Or maybe it's supposed to be sad. How do you know, from just looking at the notes?

Dicey picks at a stubborn spot where the turkey stuck and burned, and glances out the window at Sammy, still playing with his airplane. Snap! goes the rubber band, and the plane flies, high into the air, before landing in the lumps and furrows of the winter-dead fields. Then he runs to pick it, running like he's trying to get away from something instead of trying to get to it, and snaps it back into the air right away. She thinks he's playing with the airplane more to have an excuse to run, but if running makes him feel better, than it was a pretty good present.

"Gram?"

It takes a moment for Gram to answer; she's putting away the remains of the pies and maybe she needs to concentrate on that. Dicey doesn't turn to look.

"What is it, girl?"

Dicey bites her lip, and rinses out the turkey pan. But you have to start talking about things somewhere, or they never get talked about. And if families didn't talk, was that what started them pulling away? "Was Uncle Samuel -- Bullet -- was he like Sammy is? Always running at something?"

Gram stays silent again, and Dicey rubs at the turkey pan with the towel so she still doesn't have to look. There are no more dishes to do; if Gram doesn't want to answer, then Dicey can go into the living room and sit with Maybeth, or let James teach her chess. Or go work on the boat, or run with Sammy... or go visit Momma under the paper mulberry tree.

But you have to start talking somewhere. "Gram?"

"He was," Gram says, almost on top of Dicey's voice. "He was always looking for a fight, or in the middle of one, even if it was just fighting with himself, to see how far he could go. How fast. Then one day he started running, and he never came back." She sighs. "Seems all my children turned into runners, in the end."

Dicey hears her footsteps against the worn floor, sees out of the corner of her eye as she comes to stand next to Dicey, looking out at Sammy.

"Don't worry about Sammy, girl," she says after another little while. "We're in a hard time, and running's the only way Sammy knows to fight the pain. Just like my Bullet. But Sammy knows he's always got a place to run back to. You saw to that, didn't you."

Gram's hands are red, too, the knuckles large and the veins prominent as they rest on the edge of the sink. She pats Dicey's hand awkwardly, and takes the turkey pan. "You go on and sit with your brother and your sister. I'll watch Sammy."

Dicey takes a step, but hovers over the next one. "Can we look at the pictures again, when Sammy comes in? The ones of Momma and Bullet and Uncle John?"

Gram nods. "We can. Christmas is for family." She puts the turkey pan back down, like she's forgotten what she was going to do with it. She's still looking out the window at Sammy. Or another little boy, maybe. "John built that boat of yours," she says for no reason. "He was always building something. You're like him in that."

Dicey thinks about that, then nods in return and slips out of the kitchen. James is hunched over his chess board, playing against himself ("What's the good of that?" Sammy demanded. "They're chess problems," James replied, "So I can learn the right way."), and Maybeth is still trying her song. The notes are already coming smoother; it sounds more and more like one of Momma's songs. Maybe Maybeth was able to hear that just from looking at the page.

Dicey settles on the bench next to her sister and listens. Maybeth's hair falls pale around her face, and the wood of the bracelet around her wrist glows in the light. The words under the notes aren't all in English. Maybe James will know what they mean, or Mr. Lingerle.

" _I wish I was on yonder hill_  
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,  
And every tear would turn a mill,  
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan"

Maybeth finishes and leans her head against Dicey's shoulder. Dicey rests her cheek against Maybeth's head. The kitchen door slams as Sammy comes in, bringing a rush of crisp air with him. Dicey rescues Will and Claire's Christmas card as it flutters off the top of the piano, and props it carefully back in place.

"Do you want to sing a Christmas song?" she asks. Maybeth nods and starts to play again. By the third day of Christmas, James abandons his chess problem to sing with them; by the fifth day, Sammy appears, his face flushed with cold, and is singing, too. The click of Gram's knitting needles when she settles on the old sofa seems to keep time.

Outside, the paper mulberry waves gently in the wind over Momma's grave.

  
*****  


_Dear Uncle John:_

You don't know us, but our Momma, Liza Tillerman, was your sister. We got your address from the wedding announcement you sent our Gram, but it was really old, so we hope this letter makes it to you somehow.

Our Momma is dead, which you probably didn't know. She died two years ago, and we came to live with Gram on the farm in Crisfield. There are four of us: Dicey, James, Maybeth, and Sammy.

We know you haven't talked to Gram in a long time, and that you don't know who we are. But we thought that you might want to know us....

  
*****  


_II._

He had no intention of going anywhere near Maryland when he flew into Philadelphia. He has business meetings he couldn't put off -- even in the week between Christmas and New Years, work still needs to be done -- and he wanted to be done with them, to home to Audrey and the girls.

He didn't intend to bring the card either -- the battered Christmas card, sent to an ancient address, that had taken more than a year to find him. He'd seen the return address -- Tillerman. Crisfield, MD -- and hadn't opened it, just tossed it into a box of papers and forgotten it. As he imagined his parents had done with the wedding announcement Audrey had sent, all those years ago.

But they needed to clear out boxes for the move, and Elizabeth found the card, and brought it over to her father with questions in her eyes. "I though we were the only Tillermans, Daddy. Who is this?" And Audrey's eyes were on him, patient and expectant, and he opened it to make his wife happy.

Dicey. James. Maybeth. Sammy. He has the card and the letter, written on ruled notebook paper, inside, tucked into his briefcase. He doesn't know why he put it there.

He rented the car to get from the hotel to the office, and back. Maybe to drive to dinner, although Philadelphia was a walking town.

But he turns away from the hotel, turns onto I-95 south, and keeps driving without ever making the decision to go.

It's a long trip into Maryland, through small cities and smaller towns, growing more rural the further south he gets. The smell of the ocean is different here, heavier, distinct from the clean lightness of the Pacific. Or maybe that's in his head.

Once he reached Salisbury, he doesn't need to read the road signs anymore. It seems like nothing has changed, like the land of his childhood is rising up to wrap around him, and he abruptly stops the car, almost turns around and starts the hundred miles back to Philadelphia.

Dicey. James. Maybeth. Sammy.

Liza. Bullet.

He pulls back onto the road and keeps going, as twilight continues to fall. All the way to Crisfield, and past.

The mailbox is still there, where it always was, sturdily braced and neatly painted, as if he'd just fixed it that morning.  The driveway was in decent shape, as well; his mother must have started taking care of the place again after the old man died. Or maybe it had been the kids.

The paper mulberry tree is still standing. He stops the car and just stares at it before getting out, walking over to look up into the bare branches. The platform is still there, the treehouse he built for his sister long ago. There is fresh wood patching it here and there, but it's his work, just the same.

The front porch is patched as well, and the soft lights of a Christmas tree glow through the front windows of the house. Someone is playing the piano, and he listens until he can make out the melody: "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear."

He becomes aware of the rhythmic thumps only after they stop. A teenage boy appears from behind the house, drawn by the sound of the car engine, maybe. "Hey, Mina!" he starts to shout, before stuttering to a halt at the sight of a stranger. His chin goes up and his shoulders square off. "Who are you?" he demands, not rudely.

The only answer seems to be the straightforward one. "I'm John Tillerman. I'm Liza's brother."

The boy's eyes narrow, the wind ruffling his sweaty blonde hair. He's wearing jeans and a sweater, and it's too cold out to not be wearing a coat, but the boy doesn't seem to notice. A tennis racket swings loosely from one hand.

"We wrote you," he says abruptly. "A long time ago. Dicey thought it was a good idea."

"I got the letter."

"But you didn't answer." Not an accusation, just a statement that the boy doesn't seem to care much about.

"No. I didn't."

The boy nods as the front door swings open behind him, and a young woman comes out on a burst of music, three or four voices singing along to the piano. The cold breeze catches her short dark hair, and her eyes are suspicious when she sees the stranger in her front yard. She doesn't look much like Liza, any more than the boy does, but they look like each other.

"Who's this?" she asks her brother, and he shrugs.

"Uncle John. He says."

She comes down the porch stairs and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with her brother, not opposing John, but not welcoming him, either. A united front, waiting to see what John will do, ready for whatever it is. Their hazel eyes are familiar as they meet his, and John suddenly realizes it's because they're just like his own. The sense of connection is almost shocking, and almost painful.

"I'm Dicey," the girl says abruptly, crossing her arms. Rings gleam on her left hand, accompanied by the bruises and cuts of someone who works for a living, and works hard. "This is Sammy."

"I guessed. I'm John Tillerman, but you know that."

Dicey nods, and he understands that she can see herself in his eyes, as well. "You built the sailboat, and left the tools. I use them a lot."

"Good. I'm glad someone does. It was a good boat."

"Still is."

Sammy looks back and forth between them like he's still on a tennis court: not wary, but curious. "Gram's inside," he volunteers, and now there's a challenge behind it. "And Maybeth and James and Jeff. That's Dicey's husband."

Gram. His mother has six grandchildren, but only four know her. Gram. He tries to make the name fit with the woman in his head, the one who told him to go, and had no interest in whether he came back.

But here he is. "I'd like to see her," he says finally, although he's not sure he does. "I'd like to meet James and Maybeth. And Jeff."

"Jeff and Maybeth are the nice ones," Dicey says, and John almost smiles.

"I've been warned, then." It's hard to take the first step towards the porch; he has to take a breath first, then another. Dicey and Sammy watch without moving, then Sammy shakes his head, and takes the porch stairs two at a time. "Gram!" he hollers as he flings open the door. "Gram! Someone's here to see you!"

The piano stops and a stern voice tells Sammy not to bellow. And then his mother appears in the doorway, and stops sharply when she sees him standing there. The wind ruffles her short choppy curls, and the hem of her long skirt.

"Johnny."

"Mom." And he doesn't know what to expect, because he never really did know his mother, and he doesn't know her now. But she took in Liza's children, and maybe that means she's changed. And maybe, so has he.

She takes a deep breath, and her knuckles are white where they're wrapped around the door frame, holding it open. "Well, come in if you're coming. It's too cold to stand around outside."

Dicey makes a noise that might have been a laugh, and leads the way up the stairs. John takes another breath, then he follows and, on impulse, leans close to his mother as he goes past her.

"I came back," he says quietly into her ear. He doesn't know if it's a challenge, or a peace offering, or just a statement of fact.

"I'm glad of that," she responds after a moment, and lets the door swing closed behind them.

**Fin**

_"Siuil a Ruin" (shool' ah roon') is an Irish traditional; the translation is "Go, my love." The Gaelic in the chorus is, roughly, "And safe for aye may my darling be"._

 


End file.
